I don't who who these people are.
I just dreamed them. And they are saying no names.
He'd passed idle waves of travelers on the way--there were many more up ahead, past this godawful white-walled tunnel that looked like someone had taken the badly imitative 'granite' lineolum, crushed it, shattered it like confetti, then glued thousands, millions of pieces together to make walls between slick-solid sloping ceiling and floor.
He was moving slow, obviously in no hurry to make a connection to another flight, almost reveling in the sheer ugliness that was the height of airport remodeling. Somebody passing--one of those scruffy college students out on break, hauling backpack and wheeled-carryon in quick jerky movements, flying standby home--had said that it used to be worse, that this really was an improvement.
He wasn't sure he believed that. He rather hoped it wasn't true.
The uniform didn't fit quite right. Too wide across the shoulders, too small about the waist, the pants too long and brushing at the floor, past boots too solid for a maintainence man. He hoped no one would notice--there were other temporary workers here who had even grosser errors in their tailoring.
He set down the paper bag carefully, stilling the sloshing with a careful hand, then reached in for tools, opening the wall and feeling amongst the wires, wishing he had thought to bring a light.
He frowned, head just slightly tilted, watching the man dressed in electrician's grey-brown-green fumble with the wires, sealing them back with dips of a clear fluid that seemed to dry on contact with the plastic-coated metal.
The man looked up, all distracted engineer when he walked past, a little too close, then said something that sounded like the buzzing of bees, like the robot children's voices on that silly Spy Kids movie he had watched on the plane for want of something better. He smiled apologetically down, shrugging his shoulders, then continued up the ramp, for all the world a jetlagged man in need of a real bed and many hours of sleep. Behind him, satisfied, the 'maintainence man' turned back to his work.
There--guardsmen gray, coming this direction, young and earnest, not native to these places but trying hard to become so before flying to his true port of call. Perfect.
The man looked like any other traveler, tired, long ponytail fuzzed by cheap airline cloth seats, worn rucksack slung over one shoulder, a travel-bag dangling from a hand. Deep-polished wooden stick stuck through the belt the only odd note, then a subtle flicking of the man's free hand bringing attention to his face.
'Assassin,' he mouths, inclining his head to the man buried elbows deep in the wall, rummaging with the innards of the wiring, ignoring the world in favour of his work.
I freeze, looking over, noticing for the first time how badly the uniform fits, the white-paper bag holding the man's tools instead of the rough-edged case every other engineer in existance seems to carry, the cautious way he is pulling the wires and sticking them to each other with a clear sealant I am not familiar with--
I am moving before I know it, touching the man's shoulder, unprepared when he half-turns, swiping with a hypodermic needle that is filled with his viscous sealant. I pull away, dodging barely the stab of the needle, trying desperately to remember my lessons.
The travel-bag lands heavily on the man's arm, driving the needle deep into the man's thigh and without thinking I reach out and depress the plunger.
The 'engineer' swears angrily at us both, body shaking, his voice the roused hum of a beehive and we back away, out of his reach as he convulses.
My helper is moving away, up the ramp, and I think he is going for help, until he glances back at me, tips his head in odd acknowledgment and turns away.
I shout, moving away from the saboteur, crying for my helper to come back, be praised for his report and watch as the 'engineer' is hauled away to questioning.
He reached with horribly shaking hands for his bag, for the sloshing sealant that would silent that noisy guard, if only he could reach it--
He turned back at the shout, wishing now that he had not chosen so young and fair-playing a guardsman--an older one would have taken credit and let the traveler go his way in peace--eyes widening at the sight of the engineer's convulsions bringing him closer to the white-paper bag that had sloshed so oddly when he'd set it down, and without pausing he brought his free hand out and into a complicated gesture.
The guardsman went down with a startled cry, feet swept from under him by the strong, ankle-height wind that gusted in the corridor, moving the white-paper bag safely out of reach of the angry-buzzing man, still upright.
The traveler freezes for a long moment, realising that he has accidentally revealed a Power to a guardsman, then turns away, moving through the concourse food court and off into one of the other wings before the guardsman gains his feet again.
He was on the street before he knew it, squat ugly curving buildings curving away from him. He considered briefly going back inside, trying to find the subway--his intended destination--then decided that this would serve even better. The guardsmen would not expect him to walk away from this, to disappear into a city's faceless pedestrians. They would expect a flight, a ride on a subway train, anything to flee the scene of his not-quite-crime.
He smiled briefly, then set out, towards some brightly coloured tourist trap proclaiming the wonders of the city, worn rucksack over one shoulder, a travel bag dangling from his hand, and a deeply polished, still-warm-through-the-denim short-staff through his belt.
He'd passed idle waves of travelers on the way--there were many more up ahead, past this godawful white-walled tunnel that looked like someone had taken the badly imitative 'granite' lineolum, crushed it, shattered it like confetti, then glued thousands, millions of pieces together to make walls between slick-solid sloping ceiling and floor.
He was moving slow, obviously in no hurry to make a connection to another flight, almost reveling in the sheer ugliness that was the height of airport remodeling. Somebody passing--one of those scruffy college students out on break, hauling backpack and wheeled-carryon in quick jerky movements, flying standby home--had said that it used to be worse, that this really was an improvement.
He wasn't sure he believed that. He rather hoped it wasn't true.
The uniform didn't fit quite right. Too wide across the shoulders, too small about the waist, the pants too long and brushing at the floor, past boots too solid for a maintainence man. He hoped no one would notice--there were other temporary workers here who had even grosser errors in their tailoring.
He set down the paper bag carefully, stilling the sloshing with a careful hand, then reached in for tools, opening the wall and feeling amongst the wires, wishing he had thought to bring a light.
He frowned, head just slightly tilted, watching the man dressed in electrician's grey-brown-green fumble with the wires, sealing them back with dips of a clear fluid that seemed to dry on contact with the plastic-coated metal.
The man looked up, all distracted engineer when he walked past, a little too close, then said something that sounded like the buzzing of bees, like the robot children's voices on that silly Spy Kids movie he had watched on the plane for want of something better. He smiled apologetically down, shrugging his shoulders, then continued up the ramp, for all the world a jetlagged man in need of a real bed and many hours of sleep. Behind him, satisfied, the 'maintainence man' turned back to his work.
There--guardsmen gray, coming this direction, young and earnest, not native to these places but trying hard to become so before flying to his true port of call. Perfect.
The man looked like any other traveler, tired, long ponytail fuzzed by cheap airline cloth seats, worn rucksack slung over one shoulder, a travel-bag dangling from a hand. Deep-polished wooden stick stuck through the belt the only odd note, then a subtle flicking of the man's free hand bringing attention to his face.
'Assassin,' he mouths, inclining his head to the man buried elbows deep in the wall, rummaging with the innards of the wiring, ignoring the world in favour of his work.
I freeze, looking over, noticing for the first time how badly the uniform fits, the white-paper bag holding the man's tools instead of the rough-edged case every other engineer in existance seems to carry, the cautious way he is pulling the wires and sticking them to each other with a clear sealant I am not familiar with--
I am moving before I know it, touching the man's shoulder, unprepared when he half-turns, swiping with a hypodermic needle that is filled with his viscous sealant. I pull away, dodging barely the stab of the needle, trying desperately to remember my lessons.
The travel-bag lands heavily on the man's arm, driving the needle deep into the man's thigh and without thinking I reach out and depress the plunger.
The 'engineer' swears angrily at us both, body shaking, his voice the roused hum of a beehive and we back away, out of his reach as he convulses.
My helper is moving away, up the ramp, and I think he is going for help, until he glances back at me, tips his head in odd acknowledgment and turns away.
I shout, moving away from the saboteur, crying for my helper to come back, be praised for his report and watch as the 'engineer' is hauled away to questioning.
He reached with horribly shaking hands for his bag, for the sloshing sealant that would silent that noisy guard, if only he could reach it--
He turned back at the shout, wishing now that he had not chosen so young and fair-playing a guardsman--an older one would have taken credit and let the traveler go his way in peace--eyes widening at the sight of the engineer's convulsions bringing him closer to the white-paper bag that had sloshed so oddly when he'd set it down, and without pausing he brought his free hand out and into a complicated gesture.
The guardsman went down with a startled cry, feet swept from under him by the strong, ankle-height wind that gusted in the corridor, moving the white-paper bag safely out of reach of the angry-buzzing man, still upright.
The traveler freezes for a long moment, realising that he has accidentally revealed a Power to a guardsman, then turns away, moving through the concourse food court and off into one of the other wings before the guardsman gains his feet again.
He was on the street before he knew it, squat ugly curving buildings curving away from him. He considered briefly going back inside, trying to find the subway--his intended destination--then decided that this would serve even better. The guardsmen would not expect him to walk away from this, to disappear into a city's faceless pedestrians. They would expect a flight, a ride on a subway train, anything to flee the scene of his not-quite-crime.
He smiled briefly, then set out, towards some brightly coloured tourist trap proclaiming the wonders of the city, worn rucksack over one shoulder, a travel bag dangling from his hand, and a deeply polished, still-warm-through-the-denim short-staff through his belt.